Renegade
by Lass Cherrie
Summary: ON HIATUS / AU. Game-verse. / She stole his Magma Emblem. He's the Executive's son. Now they're trapped together in the pits of Magma Hideout. But they're about to discover that there's a lot worse out there than being stuck with your enemy.


**September 10, 2011.**

**A/N: **Hi, reader.

This idea literally just exploded to life in my brain, so I sat down and wrote it. I'm not sure where it's going, or if it'll even go anywhere if no-one likes it (so if you want this one continued, let me know!), but I do know I'm hoping to keep it pretty short. :)

If you _are_ looking for something you can chew on, check out my other, on-going fic, _Amazing Grace_.

**Summary:** She was hired to infiltrate Magma hideout. To do that, she needed an Emblem. So she stole his - the son of a Magma Executive. Now he's seeking revenge for his fall from grace, and when he accidentally recognises her, he'll stop at nothing to catch her. But things quickly go downhill when she escapes to an unused tunnel and the floor caves in. Now they're trapped together with no way of escape - but when things more sinister come to light, being stuck with the enemy becomes the least of their troubles. And they're going to have to work together if they want to survive.

Genre: romance, drama, slight darkfic. Rated T for language/themes and _maybe _intimacy. ;P Rating may go up.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Pokemon.

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**Renegade**

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**/ 1.**

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**L. Alder**

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March twenty-first dawns bright and sunny.

It's a Saturday, and to anyone who's ever been to Slateport City, that means Market Day. The city is already wide awake by the time the sun decides to rise – farmers and fishmongers have already set up their stalls and are on their third cup of coffee before the first eager shopper has even rolled out of bed.

I'm loitering on one of the port's creaking wooden piers, my hands stuffed in my jacket pockets, my back resting against a jetty post, watching.

Waiting.

As the first golden rays of light filter down to kiss the uneven stone pavement, the earliest of the market-goers start trickling in. The atmosphere in the air rises gradually from sleepy-morning-routine to the hustle and bustle of a crowd anxious to snag the best deals. Before long, the place is packed. And _loud_.

I push off from the wooden post, my eyes flicking from stall to stall. Searching for the tell-tale sign that the ball of today's supposed heist – according to our insider – is about to get rolling.

There.

I start walking – calmly and casually – my fur-lined hood pulled up over my head. I was told what to look for. A red bandana. Something completely unobtrusive to the eye of the ignorant, but a symbol of something sinister to those clued in. Amusing how all those dumb, impatient citizens can be so blind to the presence of one of the nation's most infamous crime organisations when it walks among them almost every day.

But that's the beauty of invisibility.

I muse to myself that the marketplace really is quite an ingenious place to plan a heist as I slip into the crowd. No-one will even suspect a thing in this chaotic mess – not until it's too late. By the time Officer Jenny gets here, the thugs will be long gone without a single trace. Whoever's heading this thing knows their stuff.

But, they don't quite know enough. Otherwise they would have realised that, in the unlikely event of somebody gaining knowledge of their highly-confidential plans, the very same setting that would mask them from the suspicion of the public would also mask a potential threat.

Only a fool would trust complete confidentiality. Information always leaks.

I follow Red Bandana as he strides casually through the market, weaving his way towards the Maritime Museum. He's good; nobody even gives him a second glance. To the trained eye, however, he sticks out like a sore thumb. His posture practically reeks of shady intent. And the way he lingers _just that second too long_ at each stall completely gives his game away.

If there were a private investigator here, he'd be toast.

I close in on him slowly as he nears the museum. The plan is simple: acquire the target possession before he reaches the marketplace's eastern exit. If he clears those last few stalls before I get to him, I have no chance. It would be way too dangerous to attempt beyond the border of the market; I'd be hunting him in plain sight. Someone would notice. No doubt.

Human beings have this innate accuracy when they're being followed – we just sense it. Somehow, you always _know _when something suspicious is going on; the feeling of _wrongness _can be almost overwhelming.

So I'm unsurprised when Red Bandana realises I'm tailing him.

It's just the slightest reaction; a tiny shoulder jerk that means he's suddenly tensed up – wary. But it's enough of a signal for me to step up the pace. I slide effortlessly among the bustling crowd, even more invisible than him. If you know how to blend, people's eyes will _literally _slide past without seeing you.

And one thing I'm _one hundred percent certain of_ is my expertise at blending.

He starts to get sloppy as he nears the east gate, perhaps because he knows I'm getting a little close for comfort. Clearly, his training hasn't prepared him for what to do in a worst-case scenario; had he kept his cool he might have actually been able to lose me.

It would have been _damn_ difficult, even for a professional. But nothing's_ impossible_.

As it is, I'm only three paces behind him as he hunches down, lengthening his strides in an anxious attempt to beat me to the gate. I fight the tiniest of smirks as I skirt around him until we're almost level. You don't have to have long legs to cover ground quickly.

To be honest, I'm almost disappointed when I overtake him, smooth and subtle as a shadow. The thrill of the hunt seeps away as I wait for him at the gate, posing easily as an unimpressed teen dragged down here by her dad. Completely inconspicuous.

The man I stand with doesn't even sense me behind him; he's locked in conversation with two other Clamperl hunters. His jolly, booming laugh sets a comfortable, inoffensive mood that visibly sets Red Bandana at ease. With a horrible, failed attempt at a furtive glance around, he apparently decides the coast is clear, and strides with confidence toward the gates.

There are two – an 'in' and an 'out' – monitored by fluorescent-vested council members who regulate the early-morning stampede. As a result, the crowd throngs at the gates like water building up behind a weir, and Red Bandana has no choice but to be swept along until he's practically next to me.

I wait, blending in until he's so close his elbow brushes my sleeve. He'd been mistakenly contemplating me as an ordinary person, not a potential threat, as he neared, so it's only too easy for me to catch his eye as he passes.

They're a bright, startling blue.

I mold my expression into a bored grimace and offer calmly, like maybe I'm just an ordinary kid recognising another ordinary kid who might understand, "I hate this place."

For added effect, I shoot a resentful eye roll at my stand-in daddy's back.

His fleeting look is one of forced sympathy. "I feel for you."

Surprising. I'd expected his voice to be low and gravelly; thick with tough, masculine thugness. All those stereotypical 'bad guy' traits.

But he just sounds like an ordinary kid.

He pushes past, disappearing through the gate and up the road. I finger my prize idly, watching him vanish around the corner, and pocket the small object quietly, slipping away into the masses, smoother than satin. What a letdown. He didn't even notice me picking his pockets.

This whole mission was ludicrously simple. In and out in five minutes – what a joke.

He never stood a chance.

* * *

**D. M. Linden**

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Did we infiltrate the museum? Yes.

Did we take the marine captain prisoner? Yes.

Did we seize control of the submarine? Yes.

Was my morning the biggest waste of blow on the freaking planet?

Don't even get me started.

The whole plan was idiotic; we all knew it was going to work right from the start. Why it was necessary, then – the sneaking through the market, scoping for danger at six o'clock in the morning thing – is totally beyond me. What did they expect – a blundering Grunt to jump out from behind a stall, disguised as a skinned Magikarp? There was _no way_ they could have known we were going to steal their plan from under their noses.

But whatever. When your dad's got a voice like a drill sergeant and arms thicker than tree trunks, you tend to just do what you're told.

We return to base. It's a long journey – too long. I do my best to ignore the others, sitting at the back of the private mini jet, staring firmly out across the clouds.

I've always liked flying. Something about being so far from the world below, in a fluffy land of total neutrality, just sets me at ease.

"Sir." Oh, great.

I drag my gaze from the window. One of the other Grunts is standing before me, a cell phone in his hands. He's older than me, yet his eyes – resentful as they gaze upon me – are filled with the respect of a subordinate.

He holds the phone out. "Your father."

Wordless, I reach for it, and the Grunt obediently retreats. I hold the phone to my ear. "Sir?"

"I trust if you're on the plane that everything went accordingly?" His tone is formal, leader-like.

I roll my eyes at the window. "Naturally."

"And the captain?"

I glance across the small, private lounge to where my companion, Captain Stern, is bound and handcuffed to his seat. Above the gag his eyes are filled with loathing.

"Temporarily indisposed."

I can hear the smile in my father's voice as he says, "Good. Bring him straight to me." There's a short, slightly uncomfortable pause before he adds, "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, sir." It's hardly heartfelt, but he can never tell.

The line cuts out. I snap the phone shut, tapping it rhythmically against my palm until the Grunt returns to retrieve it, considering – too late – if I should have mentioned that I was followed in the marketplace.

I shrug it off. Whoever was tracing me had ample time to take action, but they didn't, so it can't have been anything serious – hardly worth the tick in my father's temple if I told him.

We land on the strip of Lavaridge's private airport, and cross the tarmac resembling a boy band – the five youngest flanked by four of the chunkiest Grunts in black suits. People cast us curious glances as our procession makes its way through the small terminal, but no-one suspects a thing.

I nod at Officer Jenny, stationed by the sliding doors, as we pass. Sometimes I give her more credit than is due; occasionally I have this absurd hope that she might actually someday thwart us and give us some real work to do. But in actuality, she's even more hopeless than the general public – our police force connections have the wool pulled thoroughly over her eyes.

In that respect, even if she did figure us out, she'd still be harmless. They'd hush her up faster than she could cry foul play.

She gives me a small salute, then the glass doors are sliding shut behind us and we're clambering into the awaiting limousine.

"Too easy," one of the Grunts mutters, smirking. He exchanges a high-five with another.

Some of them are so immature.

The limousine only takes us as far as the outskirts of town. From there, it's a carefully constructed return to base. On the fringe of Route 112, encasing the city, are the borders of a thick pine forest, in which is hidden the most accessible and direct of several secret entrances to base.

Stealing into the forest unnoticed is the only potentially difficult part of the plan. If we're spotted by anyone, we could be in for a sticky situation.

We separate into smaller groups of two or three, smuggling the captain in first.

The sneak-in goes smoothly, and before long, we're all winding between the pines towards the hidden entrance. From there, it's just a straight hike through the damp underground tunnel right into the central cavern of the base.

But of course, there's a high-tech security system to get past first.

We gather at the end of the tunnel, by the heavy steel door. A touch pad concealed in the wall requires identification from just one member to unlock the electronic bolts.

I step forward, like normal. As the unofficial and uncontested leader of our small gang, it's always my identification used to grant access; for some reason, it's like a symbol of status.

I reach into my pocket, and freeze.

The Emblem is gone.

"Sir?" one of the Grunts asks hesitantly.

"Give me your Emblem," I instruct, swallowing down the brief spark of panic surging in my chest. It must have happened this morning, perhaps at the marketplace. Maybe the person following me _did _get what they were after, after all. But that makes no sense – the hideout's existence is a complete secret. Even those who suspect it exists wouldn't have a clue where to start looking for it.

"Why?" the Grunt has the audacity to inquire in confusion.

I turn on him. "Were you granted permission to _question me_?"

Resentment flares briefly in his eyes – probably because I'm both younger and newer than him – but he bows his head. He has no choice. "Pardoning my impudence, sir."

"Give me your Emblem," I repeat shortly.

The steel doors slide away smoothly into the rock, and I stalk inside without a backward glance, breaking away from the group.

Headquarters is busy this morning; there are Grunts everywhere. Apparently the grand master plan is moving along nicely. Phase two is due to begin almost immediately.

I retreat quickly to my quarters, rifling through the neatly-kept space, searching for the missing Emblem. But of course, it's not there. I know the exact whereabouts of all of my possessions one hundred percent of the time. I didn't come here intending to find it.

I curse under my breath, running my hand through my hair in frustration. Where the hell could it be? If the authorities catch wind of this, there could be serious trouble. I'd probably have to face an inquiry. Fantastic.

The PA system crackles. "Number one-four-seven-two, report to head office immediately. Number one-four-seven-two."

That's me.

With a heavy sigh and a sinking feeling of foreboding, I peel my thick trench coat off, tossing it lazily at the bed, and stride out into the hall, my footsteps echoing sharply against the tiled floor.

No-one glances at me as I make my way to the elevators; people get called to the office on a routine basis. But I feel like the whole world is watching me. The constant camera surveillance is probably a contributing factor.

As the lift whisks me to the topmost level, I shove my hands in my pockets, tapping my fingers against the heavy Pokéballs, drawing comfort from the presence of my loyal companions.

"They're in–" the receptionist begins as I emerge on the admin floor, but I walk past before she can finish. I already know where they are. I'm one of the freaking Executive's sons, for crying out loud.

The council is waiting for me. They look up when I walk in, their expressions variations of seriousness. My father is among them; second seat to the left of the Leader's – the only empty one. His steely eyes harden.

"Our Leader couldn't be with us today," one of the eight Executives explains. "He has more important business to attend to."

Well of course he does; he's the Team Leader.

"Is there a problem?" I ask coolly. Some of them jerk in surprise – me speaking out of turn is like a Grunt trying to give me orders.

"Know your place!" my father barks, outraged. His eyes burn. I bite my tongue. It's well-known throughout the ranks that corporal punishment is not beneath him.

I don't exactly fancy losing a toe.

"Concern has been raised," says another Executive, "regarding the location of your Emblem."

Oh, that _ratting_ son of a bitch.

"One of your comrades seems to be under the impression that it is no longer in your possession," adds another.

"Would you care to explain yourself?" my father says sternly, his eyes hard.

'Oh, shit' is the first response my brain offers. In a situation like this, it's entirely appropriate. But not to voice to the council.

"The location of the Emblem is temporarily unknown," I reply. Lying was never an option; they'd have searched my room if I'd said I'd left it there accidentally. These people take their jobs _very _seriously.

"How?" one Executive – mean-eyed – demands.

"I believe," I say, wording my answer carefully, "that I have somehow misplaced it."

"Careless child!" my father growls, infuriated. I'll be feeling his feared wrath later.

"Marcus," another Executive interjects sternly. With a furious exhalation through his nose, my father sits back in his seat, folding his beefy arms.

"You understand the dangers of this?" the eldest Executives says, blinking at me owlishly.

"Yes," I reply. If the Emblem falls into the wrong hands, the base is accessible to practically anybody. We could be completely ruined. However, that requires the possessor having knowledge of the existence of the base as well as the location of it. No-one ever takes these dangers seriously. Except the council, apparently. "Though I hardly think–"

"One word is sufficient," mean-eyed Executive barks. My weak attempt to save myself dies on my lips.

"We cannot risk you leaving the hideout," the owlish Executive says with an almost sympathetic frown. "There will not be an inquisition, but until the Emblem is found, you cannot be trusted beyond the borders of our surveillance."

So, what they're saying is, until I find my Emblem, I'm going to be treated with suspicion. Because, apparently, even being an Executive's son doesn't grant you complete trust. And, until it is located, I'm going to be watched – everywhere I go, every second, every day.

"We don't mistrust you," owlish Executive continues. Bull shit. "But you must understand our concern."

"Completely," I reply through gritted teeth.

"You are being removed from the next mission," mean-eyed Executive says shortly. "Until further notice, you are being placed on sentry duty."

You've got to be kidding me.

"You are dismissed," one Executive says. I seek my father's gaze, but he refuses to look at me.

Bowing curtly, I stalk from the room without a backward glance, fury bubbling hotly in my chest.

Someone is going to pay – _severely_ – for this.

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